On Best Behavior (C3) Read online

  “Nah. He’s still on ‘extended leave’ in Serbia as far as we know, probably feeling lucky we didn’t prosecute him. Hopefully he’ll stay there.” He gave a weary smile. “Busting him felt like taking down a Mafia kingpin—more so than arresting a corrupt politician—so this new job’s not much of a stretch.”

  Grant noticed faint purple smudges under Bounter’s eyes, darkening the rich brown skin of his face, and then the mussed comforter on one of the full beds. “You’re sleeping in the hotel?”

  “This is a makeshift office. Not much sleep’s happening here now that things are heating up.” He yawned and gestured to the small round table in the corner of the room, covered by a laptop and messy papers. “Please, come in, have a seat.”

  “I hope Mr. Remington’s giving the FBI a good rate.” He joined him at the table. “Rooms here aren’t cheap.”

  “Free sounds like a pretty good rate to me.”

  His boss was indeed getting involved. “Wow, that’s generous of him.”

  “Remington is a good man,” Bounter agreed. “Though his motives aren’t completely altruistic. It seems the criminal element has wormed its way to this hotel, and he doesn’t want it to find a home here.”

  Grant gave him a questioning look.

  “Last night was your first back performing, singing at Capone’s Spirits, correct?”

  “Yes, sir. Got my sea legs back.”

  “I know they trained you on observational skills during your time at the Academy. What’d you notice about last night’s audience?”

  “I didn’t…” His voice drifted off as he felt the heat of the agent’s stare. He closed his eyes, pushing himself to remember the guests watching him sing Sinatra and Bennett. There was the usual smattering of women wearing low-cut blouses, smiling back at him, but surely those weren’t the people Agent Bounter had in mind. Who else was there? He frantically searched his mind, feeling his throat go dry.

  “Anyone catch your eye?” Bounter prompted.

  Mr. Remington had been there, standing off to the side, making sure his vocal chords still did their thing after the two-month FBI training hiatus at Quantico. Sophie had been there too, and he’d felt at home singing to her, focusing only on her…

  “Well?”

  He sighed. “I’m sorry, sir—I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

  He winced.

  “Particularly if you want to survive. What interfered with your concentration?”

  “I’m not sure—I remember looking at Sophie, and—”

  “She distracted you. That won’t happen again.”

  “It won’t?”

  “No, it’s too risky for Sophie to be there now. Important targets came in during your first song.”

  “The Russians were there? Last night?” He paled. “What about Sophie? Did they see me go over to her when I was done?”

  “No, they were only there for a few songs. They had a drink, then left.”

  Panic laced his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve kept her far from this place if I’d known.”

  Bounter held his hands out, palms up. “We had no idea they’d show up. You never know what to expect with these thugs. We thought you’d have to go to them, but it’ll actually work out much better this way. Less risk of entrapment.”

  He felt sick. Sophie had been in the same bar with members of the Russian Mafia. “Who was there, sir?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Uh, probably not Federov…” He watched the agent raise an eyebrow. “The don was there? And I didn’t see him?”

  “He was there with a woman and another couple, in the back. You’d have to look carefully to find him.”

  “Which I obviously didn’t do,” he muttered, angry with himself. He sat up like the snap of a sail in the wind. “Wait a minute. The woman with him when they walked in—was she a blonde? Wearing a red dress?”

  The agent smiled. “Are you scoping the crowd for dates, Mr. Saylor?”

  “No, sir. I thought she might—” his voice dipped “—try to buy me a drink after. She looked the type.”

  Bounter seemed to stifle a laugh.

  “But then she was hanging off the guy, so I knew I was safe.”

  “That woman was Kebin’s date, not Federov’s.”

  “Andrei Kebin?”

  Bounter nodded—he seemed relieved Grant had at least learned the targets’ names. “Federov’s girl isn’t quite as much a looker as Kebin’s.”

  “They didn’t show me photos of the girlfriends.”

  “That’s because the girls are usually a revolving door with those two.” Bounter pulled out a manila folder.

  As Grant studied the photos of the Russians and their current girlfriends, he felt a tendril of disquiet settle in his gut. These men didn’t look all that different from his father’s family. Except that the Barberis were mostly in prison, whereas these men were free. He was determined to end their freedom too.

  “What do you need me to do next, sir?”

  “You wait.”

  Grant scowled.

  “We think it’s better for them to come to you. Makes them less suspicious.”

  “How do we know they’ll return to Capone’s?”

  “Eh…” Bounter shrugged. “We don’t know for sure, but it seemed like they were enjoying themselves until Federov got a text message. They left pretty quickly after that.”

  Grant nodded.

  “We want you to sit at the bar after your set. No friends, just you. Flash around some money, ask where to find a good poker game. Make it subtle.”

  “So I’m not going to West Town to seek them out.”

  “Correct. Just have some patience. If you play your cards right, they’ll find you.”

  Grant sighed. Sitting around waiting wasn’t what he’d hoped for.

  “Let’s review your cover story for when you make contact,” Bounter suggested. “Make sure we’re on the same page.”

  “My name’s Mick Saylor…” When he told Bounter how he got discharged from the Navy due to his gambling problem, his heart squeezed, thinking of Logan. They reviewed the reasons his knowledge of Naval Station Great Lakes and Navy submarines would be attractive to the Russians.

  “Tell me more about yourself, Mick.”

  “I grew up north of Chicago, in Lake County. My mom died from cancer when I was twelve, and my dad took my brother and me to live near his family in Norfolk.”

  “What’s your dad’s name?”

  “Jerry,” he said after a pause.

  “Hesitations like aren’t going to fly.”

  He nodded and clenched his teeth. Get it right.

  “Where do your dad and brother live now?”

  “They still live in Virginia.”

  Bounter leaned in. “Why’d you return to Chicago? Don’t you miss them?”

  “I used to work at Great Lakes. I’m not close to my family anymore…They think I have a drug problem just because I smoked a little weed in high school.”

  “Do you have a drug problem?”

  “Of course not.” He gave his best disarming smile.

  “What’d you do after high school?”

  “I joined the Navy when I was eighteen.”

  “Did you work on any submarines?”

  “Nope, I was on destroyers and bird-farms. But I know my way around subs.”

  “What’d you do when you got kicked out of the Navy?”

  “I started working in the hotel as a bellman. I was joking around with the guys, singing in the lobby, and Mr. Remington heard me. He had me audition, and the rest is history.”

  “When did you start singing at Capone’s?”

  “Last September.”

  “You’ve been singing there the whole time?”

  “Uh, I had to go home for a couple of months.”

  Bounter’s head tilted. “Why?”

  “My brother’s sick.” He swall
owed. “Testicular cancer. He didn’t really want me there, but I stayed until after his surgery.”

  Bounter smiled. “Just the right amount of emotion there, Mick. Very believable.”

  He took a deep breath. He didn’t have to manufacture emotion when it came to his brother.

  “And the testicular cancer’s a nice touch. There’s no way guys will ask follow-up questions on that one. Okay, I’ve got the hidden microphones with GPS here. Let’s get one on you.”

  “Now, sir?”

  “The Russians are on the radar. It’s time.”

  As Bounter turned to pick up the tiny button-size microphone, Grant clenched his hands into fists, his anticipation building.

  It’s time.

  2. Contact

  FROM THE DRIVER’S SEAT, Anita Green smiled at Sophie.

  Sophie rubbed her hands together, glad the defroster was pumping out warm air for their trip. When her former advisor had asked for help with data collection, she’d volunteered. But now that they were en route to Downer’s Grove Women’s Penitentiary, she questioned that decision.

  “How’s it going, Assistant Professor Taylor?” Anita asked.

  “Pretty good. Teaching two new classes is a lot of work.”

  She nodded. “I remember what my first year was like. Very busy. At least I had some reliable professors in the department to mentor me.”

  “It’s great to have mentors.” She mustered a smile. “I’m glad you’re back from Spain.”

  “Me too. Except for this detestable weather.” Snow swirled in the air but wasn’t sticking to the roads yet. “I hope our drive back to the city won’t be a skating rink.”

  Sophie couldn’t wait for the trip home, no matter how much snow had accumulated. Her stomach was in knots as they drove closer and closer to the prison that had been her home for a year.

  “Why didn’t you use David’s old syllabus for your history of psychology class?” Anita asked. “That might’ve saved you some time.”

  “Uh, you know, I wanted to make the class more current.” Her stomach tightened even more as she remembered her run-in with David Alton back in October.

  “A history class?” Anita paused. “I’ve noticed you seem rather tense around David in department meetings. Did something happen while I was away?”

  “Something did happen, but I’m not sure if I should share it.”

  “I respect that. I was just curious because David seems different since I returned.”

  “Different how?”

  Anita seemed to think for a moment. “Not quite as lecherous.”

  She laughed. “So he’s come on to you too. You never said anything about it when I was your student. I thought it was just me.”

  “I didn’t think it would be professional to discuss another professor with a student. Besides, it meant nothing to me since I’m married. I’m sorry it happened to you too—I had no idea.”

  “I think David got away with his little games because of the silence. But Tanya, Nora, and I decided that didn’t work for us anymore.”

  Anita’s jaw dropped as Sophie recounted how the three had secretly taped and then confronted David for sexually harassing women in the department.

  “What a cad!” Anita’s grip stiffened on the steering wheel. “Sounds like your confrontation worked, but why didn’t you tell the department chair? Or the university ombudsman?”

  “We thought about it,” she said. “I was hesitant to make a formal ethics charge. I’m not exactly the queen of ethics myself.”

  Her eyes softened. “You’ve paid for your ethical breach, Sophie.”

  “I know.” She sighed.

  “Do you feel like you must keep paying?”

  “Sometimes. Especially when we’re headed to Downer’s Grove.”

  Anita nodded. “Are you sure you want to do research with me?”

  “Yes.” After a moment she added, “Grant told me it was tough to return to Gurnee to confront his father, but it helped him move forward. And he was still on parole then. At least I don’t have the threat of prison hanging over my head anymore.”

  “Being on parole must’ve been so stressful.”

  “It was. But Grant made it better. Hunter too. He also thinks it’s a good idea to confront my fears.”

  “Spoken like a true therapist.” Anita winked at her.

  ***

  Inside the prison, Sophie watched a female CO pat down Anita. Great, I’m next. She tensed as the CO approached. When the guard ran her hand along her inner thigh, she closed her eyes. Though it was not an unfamiliar experience, she’d never be comfortable with pat-downs.

  The CO’s male counterpart inspected their briefcases on the conveyer next to the metal detector. “What’s this?” He held up a small tape recorder.

  Her voice sounded small. “It’s a mini-recorder, to tape the interviews.”

  “That’s not approved.” The CO placed the recorder in a box of forbidden items.

  Unable to protest, she found her words stuck in her throat.

  “Actually,” Anita butted in, slipping on her heels, “Warden Sanchez did approve that. There’s a letter in my briefcase. I could show you—” She halted when the guard held out his hand.

  “Step back. I’ll get it.”

  While Sophie zipped up her boots with trembling hands, Anita stood placidly. “It’s in the side pocket.”

  The guard scanned the letter and seemed disappointed. “It’s legit,” he said, nodding at the female CO. “Put the recorders back in their bags.” He glared at Sophie. “Those recorders better have all their working pieces when you leave, batteries included.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Follow me to the interview rooms.”

  They grabbed their briefcases and followed the officer, waiting to be buzzed through several locked doors. When they arrived at one door, the CO unlocked it and gestured for Sophie to enter. She gave Anita a jittery smile.

  “See you in a few hours,” Anita said as the door closed. She turned to accompany the officer to the next interview room.

  Sophie shivered when she heard jangling keys lock the door behind her. She placed her briefcase on the table and collapsed into a chair bolted to the cement floor. Keep it together. She forced herself to take some deep breaths.

  A few minutes later the CO unlocked the door and led in a large, imposing woman.

  Noticing the inmate’s handcuffs, she frowned. “I thought we were only interviewing minimum-security offenders?”

  He guided the woman to another chair and shrugged. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “This is the list Dr. Ashby gave me. Dominique volunteered for the study.”

  “Oh.” She felt her face flush when the inmate shot her a challenging stare.

  “You want me to take her away?” the CO asked.

  She paused. “No, it must’ve been my misunderstanding. I’d be happy to meet with Dominique. Does she, um, does she need to stay in cuffs?”

  “Yes. I’ll be right outside.” He departed, leaving the door ajar.

  She tried to rein in her furious blush. “Sorry about that.”

  Dominique studied her. “Huh. When I go see Dr. Ashby I don’t have to be cuffed.”

  “That’s probably because Dr. Ashby’s a psychologist for the DOC. They trust her.”

  Dominique continued staring.

  She took out some papers and hoped her smile didn’t convey her anxiety. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Dr. Sophie Taylor, from DePaul University. We’re conducting a study on the effectiveness of psychotherapy in prison. Today I’ll interview you about your experiences in therapy here at Downer’s Grove. Would you be willing to read about the potential benefits and risks of the study?”

  The woman gave the slightest of nods.

  Sophie was about to slide the informed consent document across the table. But instead, making every effort to be friendly, she took a deep breath, walked over to Dominique, and placed the paper on the table in f
ront of her. “Please look this over and sign if you agree to participate.”

  Stepping back, she waited a moment before Dominique gave her an expectant look. “Is there a problem?” Sophie asked.

  “I kind of need a pen?” the woman replied.

  “Oh!” Sophie gasped. “Uh, they confiscated my pens…Let me see if I can get one.”

  She poked her head out the door, and the CO came in to supervise the inmate as she signed the document with his pen. He then collected it and stepped outside again.

  “It looks difficult to sign with handcuffs on.” She returned to her seat.

  Dominique appeared unfazed. “I’m used to it.”

  “Are you okay with me recording this interview, as outlined in the informed consent document?” She pulled out the tape recorder.

  “Whatever.”

  Pressing the record button, Sophie realized she would be recorded too. She said a silent prayer that she wouldn’t sound like an idiot. She looked down at her paper. “This is a semi-structured interview, meaning I have some questions prepared but I might also ask follow-up questions to your responses, okay?”

  Dominique nodded.

  “How long have you been in therapy with Dr. Ashby?”

  “Oh.” She furrowed her brow. “I thought you’d start by asking me why I’m in here.”

  “Would you like to discuss that?”

  “No.” She looked down. “I started counseling ’bout a year ago.”

  “What led you to begin counseling?”

  She shrugged. “To get out of my cell.”

  Sophie nodded. “To get away from your bunkie?”

  The prisoner seemed surprised she knew the lingo. “Something like that.”

  “Do the police escort you to Dr. Ashby’s office? That’s what happens for maximum-security offenders, right?”

  A suspicious crease tightened her forehead. “How you know that?”

  “Well…” She blushed.

  “Wait a minute…you were here! Across the street—I remember you. Didn’t recognize you at first in your fancy duds.”

  She sighed, angry with herself for revealing too much. This was supposed to be Dominique’s interview, not hers. But this setting full of locks and cages had rattled her.

  “You’re right, I was incarcerated here a while back, in another cellblock.”